


Lamb to the Slaughter

by TheSoupDragon



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Established Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, M/M, Murder Husbands, Murder...darling, Psychiatry session, haven't watched all the tv series yet, just drawn to write this..., not cannon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-08 00:37:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17971127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSoupDragon/pseuds/TheSoupDragon
Summary: Just another day at the office for Dr. Hannibal Lecter...





	Lamb to the Slaughter

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Hannibal fan fiction so do please let me know if I've gone wrong...and if I might (possibly?) have gone right! All kudos and comments (comments especially!) are really appreciated.
> 
> I write BBC Sherlock fanfic on AO3 too. If that floats your boat, I'd love for you to have a look at that! :)
> 
> Massive thanks to [StarsAndStitches](http://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsAndStitches/pseuds/StarsAndStitches), for her unending enthusiasm and thoughtful and considered beta-reading once again...even when it was in a fandom which she wasn’t at all familiar with!!

On and on and on, he went. It was ceaseless drivel. The witterings of a self-obsessed narcissistic moron with kleptomaniac tendencies. He was also a convicted sex-offender. A most _charming_ man. 

Dr. Hannibal Lecter, the psychiatrist, kept his right hand very, very still; the pads of his fingers resting so lightly on the fine material of his right trouser leg that he could feel the thinnest slice of air between the fabric and his fingertips. His fingers hovered so close to touching that he could detect the weave of the fabric. He gave every impression of listening intently.

Hannibal Lecter the murderous cannibal, on the other hand, held delicately in his left trouser pocket a small, silver, ivory-handled caviar knife. He ran his thumb lightly along the cutting edge which had been specially sharpened, and thought about using it to slowly slice open his patient's stupid jabbering throat. The blade resembled a tiny, perfectly formed scimitar, and Hannibal envisaged pressing in with the point and curving round, slicing into the soft flesh and round to the cartilage rings of the trachea…and he would be doing the world a favour at the same time, he considered thoughtfully, in leaving it one drivelling moron fewer. However, should he wish to lean over and sample it fresh from the source as the blood splashed out and splattered the rug, it was likely that it would be tainted by the taste of the cheap chorizo sausage the idiot had eaten that morning. Hannibal could smell the vile meaty whiff of it on his breath. So, a bad idea, Hannibal thought, with some distaste. And he'd not long had the rug cleaned besides. 

Abruptly, he brought his hovering hand down hard on his thigh, the slice of air and fabric combined in a tight sandwich of his skin on either side. Now there's a thought, a part of his mind wondered briefly, thinking about Spanish prosciutto ham. "You said you kept her ashes in the window, why did you say that?" he asked suddenly in his thoughtful way.  
"What?" bleated the sheeplike Mr. Ramm; ram by name, lamb by nature.  
"A moment ago, you said you kept her ashes in the window, why?"  
Angus Ramm had already passed on from that comment. He blinked stupidly, mentally going back to it. He'd been talking about his (imaginary) new girlfriend and hadn't finished what he was saying. "Uh, I said I kept her ashes in the window because she woulda hated it."  
"Why?" asked Hannibal sharply, leaning forward in the chair, releasing his hold on the caviar knife. He drew his now empty hand out of his pocket and rested his elbows on his bent knees, lacing his long fingers together, his hands relaxed in this way and dangling elegantly. In contrast to the relaxed hands and posture, his gaze was very direct and razor sharp. He watched Angus like a hovering hawk with prey in sight.  
His eyes were the weirdest color, thought Angus Ramm; dark but not quite brown or black...like some freakin' _liver_ color, or somethin'. His mother used to eat a lot of liver. With kidneys. The thought turned his stomach. "Because she woulda said it wasn't done. She was a Brit and she would be such a _bitch_ about doin' things that 'weren't done'." He had thought Hannibal might recoil at his use of the word 'bitch' but Hannibal did not flinch or show distaste in any form. Which disappointed his patient.  
"She would not have appreciated you displaying her ashes in the window for the neighbors to see?" Hannibal asked, though he was so very, _very_ bored with this and was merely asking to be able to get to the point, waste some time and get the moron out.  
"She woulda said it was disrespectful," Angus Ramm sneered.  
Hannibal sat back in his chair. "It is," he stated, coolly.  
Angus Ramm looked at his psychiatrist. He was paying the guy. The guy was not supposed to agree with his bitch of a mother. "Who sez so?" he challenged.  
Hannibal arched an elegant eyebrow but otherwise didn't move. " _I_ say so, Mr. Ramm. Clearly, as I just did." He pushed back his shirt sleeve with one long pale index finger to check his watch. He didn't even bother to disguise what he was doing. He had decided. Angus Ramm wasn't going to get time to make a complaint.  
"I think we are finished here, Mr. Ramm," he said, looking at his patient. "Would the same time next month suit you?"  
Ramm looked affronted. "Jeez. Well..." He glanced at the clock on the wall above the psychiatrist’s head. It was exactly 12 o'clock. " 'S'pose..." he said, scratching the back of his flabby neck. Boy, but that hour had gone fast, he thought. He wasn't so keen on this new guy either, he preferred the old one. "Is Doctor Vavrečka going to be back next month? " he asked, somewhat hopefully.  
“No. He’s gone back to Russia,” said Hannibal. He decided not to tell the fool it was in a coffin. Sans his liver. 

 

~~~~~ 

 

Hannibal waited like a cat in the shadows. Angus Ramm came staggering towards his alleyway, drunk and belligerent, and Hannibal stepped back further into the darkness. The stench of the man was indescribable. He’d been on one of his self-described “famous benders” and he stank of body odor and re-applied cheap spray deodorant, stale beer and some dreadful English full tar cigarettes that had been his late mother’s. She had bought in bulk at the airport duty free, apparently. That and the odious whisky her son was so keen on finishing off. Hannibal’s nostrils twitched at the assault. Ramm dropped his wallet trying to get his cellphone out of his pocket. “Asshole,” he slurred, looking down at it, cellphone in hand. He swayed slightly on his feet. 

Hannibal had already known that this was going to be one of the rare occasions that he simply wanted to get on with the task at hand. There was to be no savouring of the kill with this stinking fat sloth. Ramm bent to scoop up his wallet and missed twice. “Fucker,” he snorted on the third try, as he finally snagged it and stood upright, nearly losing his balance to stagger sideways and career into the brick wall beside him. He collided into it hard with his shoulder, and as he did so, Hannibal moved. As smooth as the cat, he slipped across the shadowed alleyway, brushing along the brickwork, feeling the rough surface of the bricks with his fingertips like it was builders’ Braille. The edge of the caviar knife did not even gleam in the darkness as a warning, because Hannibal kept it cupped in his hand; the blade hidden by his black-gloved index finger.

 

~~~~~~~

 

Will would have liked how neatly he did that, he thought, sliding his tongue across his lower lip. The thought of Will made his heart quicken briefly, just for a few beats, before he breathed deeply and slowed it again. He would tell him all about it later. 

When he handed him the vintage glass ashtray that Ramm had stolen from his office on his first visit, he thought. And he smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a Brit, so if you spotted any glaringly awful errors on my part regarding my written American, please feel free drop me a line to Americ-amend it. (That expression being the US version of Brit-pick, at least in my mind anyway...)
> 
> Otherwise, what d'ya think? :)


End file.
